H,
There are always these bad songs about love. Love hurts,
love is pain, oh that I knew love was a winding minstrel. The very theme of
each song is love as a winding road that leads nowhere or ends in utter
frustration. They depict love as this burning thing we cannot escape or control
and that will consume us. For romantics, like us, this was music to our young
ears. We could not wait to wallow.
We needed a cure for love and all that angst. The cure
for love, of course, was love. It was not the cold in the rain, overtly
frustrated, looking for a savior with a beautiful face and body or wrestling
with our insecurities in front of a rigged mirror sort of love. It was the love
is divine and love is all there is, and love is in God and is God in reality. It
was and is the kindness before big speeches and grand gestures, it is the
forgiveness before rulemaking and fear and failure. It is the lifelong lesson
over instant fire and all that jazz about burning up.
Love is all the things we do and say and are, wrapped
in such a stringent selflessness that we will only ever get there in response
to God. It is the golden rule because it is the only rule that truly matters. It
is the light by which we must see all things and the cure for all things, even
those things we formerly called love.
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